Destroy What Destroys You
by ohsecretsecret
Summary: A different kind of "early twenties" AU. Dean Winchester and his anarchist queer group The Hunters only went to the Angels of the Lord megachurch to protest its virulently homophobic preaching. He makes something of an impression on a young, closeted, and deeply devoted young man by the name of Jimmy Novak.
1. Notes and Warnings

**Title**: Destroy What Destroys You

**Author**: ohsecretsecret

**Pairings**: Dean/Cas, references Dean/Victor, Sam/Jess, Sam/Ruby, Sam/Gabe

******Warnings**: homophobia both internalized and external, transphobic and homophobic violence, minor character death (canon deaths), police brutality, sexual assault, jail sucks, references those awful de-gay camps they send children to and torture them, references homelessness, Dean engages in sex work and doesn't hate it, a couple of your favorite characters are now transgender and honestly if you're gonna be fucked up about that I'd rather you just not read this fic.

**Author's notes:**

So I have read a lot of destiel AUs where Dean and Cas meet in their late teens/early twenties. They've all been great, but they've all been really really normative and about normal suburban lives and it didn't look like anything even close to my own experience at that age, so I decided to write a fic that reflected that. Basically my life was centered around something called Queers Bash Back (see: wiki/Bash_Back), or Bash Back/BB for short. BB was an anarchist queer group that existed all across the US and Canada from like 2007- 2010. So, for the record, most things in this story are real. All the actions, the conferences, the fire Dean saved Sam from (happened in Minneapolis last year and a friend of friends died saving his housemates), the grand jury witch hunt (please see the Pacific Northwest Resisters, who are in jail right this second), and a lot of the conversations (especially the Sam and Dean conversations about what to do with yr life) are from my and my close friends' real lives. We live in interesting times, I guess.

Oh and the church action that happens in the first chapter really did happen almost exactly like that. I wasn't there (before my time) but my best friends were and there's video of it. Bill O'Reilly called them homosexual terrorists. Too good. (google "Mount Hope Infinity" if you don't believe me).

Sorry if you're upset I turned a couple of characters into trans folks. I get upset when people write about sex workers like they're all tragic victims and when slavery is glorified, so now we're even, fandom.

I have this theory that the AUs I enjoy the absolute most are the ones that kind of parallel canon events. I'm a psych person and I think that the only way you can get a Dean Winchester is with the formula of his life events, you know? Same with Sam and Cas. So this is like, canonverse kinda.

But hey, if any of this interests you and you want to learn more about how to be a scary badass like me and my crew, lemme know. Also all I want in this world is fanart for this story because I pretty much need to see punk Sam and Dean and co.

The title of this fic comes from an anarchist slogan I've always loved.

I'm considering making a glossary for this story because honestly I don't expect anyone to know what an oogle or a space bag is. If that would be at all interesting to you, let me know.


	2. Chapter 1

Dean shifted uncomfortably, stiff on the wooden pew. A quick glance to the left confirmed that Jo and Meg were in their places, both wearing long skirts and conservative blouses, which would be really, really funny in any other situation. It was a warm day but Dean had to wear the green long sleeved blazer that just barely came down to his wrists. He'd found the ugly thing in a free box on the street, so he got what he paid for, he guessed.

The organ music swelled suddenly and the congregation got to their collective feet in an almost synchronized movement. Dean too lurched forward, his heavy work boots anchoring him to the cathedral's floor. He shuddered with the memory of it, marveling at how quickly his body and mouth were able to recall all the correct motions and words without any real effort. He took a few deep, calming breaths before trying to remind himself that he was free from all this now. He didn't have to be here, it was his choice. He was in these pews for a greater cause.

A guy in the pew in front of him, he couldn't be more than a few years older than his own 20 years, turned to look at him. His deep blue eyes looked almost straight through Dean and for a second his heart raced with the certainty that they were discovered. This dark haired man must see, for it was so very clear, that Dean no longer belonged to this flock, that these peat green sleeves hid inked skin, that his heart distinctly lacked a love for the Lord. He felt his brow dampen with anxious moisture and he ran a scarred hand through his dirty blond hair with nervousness. Instead, the stranger only smiled the special smile of the reverent and turned back to face the front of the church. _I'm not your fucking brother, asshole_, Dean thought to himself, before allowing his eyes a cursory glance up and then, of course, subsequently down the man's body. An elbow jabbed him sharply in his side, and Dean was already grinning when he turned to Victor's disapproving face.

"What?" he hissed, "I'm allowed to look."

"Time and place, Winchester," Victor whispered back, "And check your phone. Has Sam texted you yet? It's about to start."

Dean slid his phone out of his twelfth-hand coat's pocket and glanced down at the screen. One text. Sam. The message short and concise: Got 'em.

"The guards took the bait," Dean leans in to Victor to relay the message, "we're all clear." Victor responded by giving a quick nod, then he turned to flash Jo and Meg a thumbs up. All four of them shot a nervous glance towards the altar as the flock's current shepherd, a Pastor Zachariah Adler, mounted the pulpit. Five minutes.

The set up was simple enough, like all their battle plans. Sam and the others who were unable to pass as normal, church-going folks were just outside the church with megaphones and obscene signs and offensive chants. Just like a real-life protest, and Dean guesses it is, for all intents and purposes, real. But it was just a distraction, just a way to occupy the guards so he and his little special ops crew in the pews and hidden away up above in the seemingly empty choir ledge could act uninterrupted. And it was almost time to begin.

Pastor Adler's sermon did not disappoint, but Dean knew it wouldn't from his ex-life as part of a similar flock. Their information was correct; today Pastor Adler would be delivering a fire and brimstone testimony on the evils of homosexuality. Dean braced himself in his seat as the words washed over him.

"…the vile sin of homosexuality can no longer be tolerated, neither in our community nor in the world at large. The good Lord truly showed his love when he bestowed this world with his gift of the AIDS virus-"

Dean felt Victor stiffen beside him and take a sharp breath in. He covered his friend's hand with his own, his white skin contrasting sharply on Victor's dark brown, and gave a tight squeeze, feeling the sharp pang of guilt. He should have anticipated this. Victor, whose partner only last week received his positive test results, should not have had to hear that. But Victor was made of strong stuff, and he only returned the hand squeeze reassuringly and pulled away.

"…but it did not succeed where it should have. The homosexuals are still here, perverting our children and recruiting them, turning them from God fearing innocents to hell bound abominations!"

And that was it. That was their cue. Dean felt his heart pound furiously in his chest as he climbed to his feet. Of course it was Dean who would start it. It would always be Dean. He wasn't even asked, come to think of it, they all just assumed. Those sitting closest turned their attention to him, people shifting and craning their necks to see why this young man had risen from his seat. Even the smiley guy from in front of him turned his gaze on Dean, his head tilted slightly to the side in confusion.

It was only a second, maybe two, and Dean brought his hand up to his mouth and bellowed in his deep and well-worn yell.

"IT'S OK!"

"TO BE GAY!" came the second part of the call-and-answer chant, as Jo, Meg, Victor, and a few other disguised activists scattered in the pews also rose to their feet. Then they were out of the rows and in the aisles, chanting and scattering their Xeroxed pamphlets that Sam had painstakingly written and edited until 2 am. All the language, even this chant that they were echoing through the rafters, had to be accessible and easily understood while still confrontational and direct. Dean didn't love the simplistic "it's ok to be gay" chant himself, it wasn't even close to the militancy he preferred, but it was the only one that fulfilled all the criteria.

Jo and Meg made it to the front of the church first, with Dean and Victor vaulting up the two steps seconds later. They heard their friends continuing the chant as they stared out at the seats filled with shocked church-goers. Jaws were dropped, eyes were wide. For a brief second, the man who had smiled locked those intense sapphire eyes onto Dean's own, and Dean felt a twinge in his stomach. That face, that hard set mouth, those defeated orbs of blue. Like recognized like, Dean always said, and in that moment he felt as if he were looking at a barely-escaped future. Poor fucker.

The Pastor was yelling, trying to regain control of the situation, desperately attempting to pull the attention back onto him. Jo turned to Meg, Dean to Victor, and then they were kissing, lips locked together in an act of defiance. Dean was relieved that he and Victor had ended their fling months ago because he couldn't think of anything less romantic than this exact moment. As he slid his lips against Victor's, widening his mouth to really make a show of it, he heard the telltale flapping sound of a banner as it dropped. Sure enough, when he pulled away from his friend and looked up, he saw that Ash and his crew had succeeded in their task. There, above their heads, barely three feet from the Pastor at his pulpit, hung a white bed sheet weighted down with a few sand-filled coffee cans, the words "Love is love! It's ok to be gay!" emblazoned on its surface.

Ash leaned over the ledge, his stupid hipster mullet falling in his face as he threw a hundred of Sam's pamphlets into the air. They floated down like confetti into the pews. Dean watched as parents desperately pulled the paper from their children's curious hands. And everything felt like it was worth it when he saw Blue Eyes discreetly tuck a sheet into his sleeve. If they can just reach one person…

It was more to him, this lost and battered soul Dean could immediately recognize, that Dean addressed his last announcement than to the rest of the congregation. Looking right in his face, Dean shouted over the pastor and panicking congregants:

"Jesus loves you. God created you this way and He loves you just the way you are. You are _not _an abomination. You are precious and perfect."

Exceptionally sentimental and not his best work, but he has a feeling that gaping, shocked kid needed to hear it. Dean watches a red headed woman sitting beside the guy smile slightly, but there's no time to ponder the meaning of the gesture before he's running down the aisle, Victor still clutching his hand, Meg and Jo whooping excitedly as Ash and his small group joins them.

They burst through the doors, laughing at the relief that washes over their bodies. Twenty yards away, Sam whips his head toward their direction and beams, his goofy smile lighting up his worried face. The security guards who had been hassling the faux-protester turned to stare at the shouting, stampeding group exiting from the church, and Sam used their shocked distraction to usher the queers around him towards the parking lot and into the getaway cars. Dean caught up to Sam, Victor and Meg and Jo trailing a little bit behind, and they all dove into Dean's car. Dean slid into the driver's seat (black leather, much to Sam's vegan disgust), shoved the key into the ignition, and peeled out of the parking lot.

Out they drove, closing out the caravan of escape vehicles carrying victorious anarchists and radicals, out past the megachurch's formidable cast iron gates, out into the world that was, for better or for worse, their home.

The car was silent for the first few miles. Hearts were still racing, adrenaline was still coursing through their veins, and no one could really wrap their heads around the events of the last half hour. Months of planning, countless logistics meetings, hours of arguing, and it was finished. They had just successfully infiltrated one of the largest and most virulently anti-gay megachurches in the world. It was hard to comprehend.

"Your boyfriend pocketed one of the fliers, did you see?" Victor said, breaking the silence.

"Aw, did Dean-o make a self-hating friend?" Meg teased, brushing her dark hair from her face, her perfectly manicured eyebrows arched in fake shock, "Did you tell him that you wuved him cuz he was just how God made him?"

"Shut up, Meg," Dean grumbled, glaring at her through the rearview mirror. She was part of the group, but he and Meg has an antagonistic relationship on the best of days. Dean was positive that if they weren't both fighting a common enemy they would be enemies themselves.

"What are they talking about, Dean?" Sam asked, his voice cracking mid-sentence before dropping back down to his deep bass. He'd only been on hormones for 10 months now, but his voice was the first thing to change. Dean couldn't even remember what his brother had sounded like before testosterone. It was as if he'd never had a sister, only this floppy haired boy sitting next to him

"Nothing Sammy, don't worry about it," he answered gruffly, hoping to avoid the conversation altogether.

"Don't call me that. It's Sam, dude."

"Well then you shouldn't have picked a name that's so easy to make into a goofy nickname. Angus, now that's a name. What could I do with Angus? Or Burt, maybe." Dean laughed, happy to be on a new subject.

In truth Dean liked Sam's new name. He'd filled out the paperwork last year. It had been a complete surprise when Sam had shown him the form and Dean saw his brother's new full title. "Samuel Winchester", the typed letters had said.

"You took my last name?" Dean had asked, simultaneously moved and confused.

"Well yeah, man," Sam had answered, "We're brothers now, aren't we?"

"Yeah Sammy," Dean grunted, trying at all costs to avoid a chick-flick moment, "We're brothers."

It hadn't been a big deal when Sam came out three years back. It's not as if he were completely surprised by Sam's nervous admission that he had always felt like a boy instead of the girl everyone saw him as. Dean had been around the queer scene long enough to have been through the process a few times already. Never with anyone as close to him as Sam, but it was the same theory. Queer family was different than blood family. For most of them, queer family was better. He was only two years younger than Dean but that was enough to make Dean feel fiercely protective. Plus there was the little matter of that night two years back with the warehouse and the fire. Kids tend to cling to you when you drag them out of burning buildings, Dean has learned.

Shoving that memory to the back of his mind quickly, Dean focused back on his chattering friends. He was content to just listen to their excited accounts of the action, and soon enough they were pulling up to the squat where they all lived. It was good to be home.


	3. Chapter 2

The Roadhouse wasn't actually technically a squat. It wasn't like The Garden, where Chuck and Gabe lived. Squatting was essential to their little group's survival; it meant no one had to find some soul-sucking job to make rent. It was dangerous and unstable and they never really knew when they were going to get evicted by the cops or if an angry property owner would try to get vigilante on them, but it was worth the risks. The Roadhouse, though, was safer than a squat. Jo's mother, a well-known activist in the Bay for the last two decades, owned the house and through the goodness of her heart allowed her daughter and a few of her friends to live there rent free. In exchange, the kids took care of the house, maintained the property, and hosted Ellen's big Food Not Bombs meetings.

Dean had lived a lot of places since getting kicked out five years back. He'd left Kansas along with the furious eyes of his father in his dust and had found himself trying to survive a few Midwestern winters on his own. It was brutal, the cold and the loneliness equally bone chilling, equally harmful to his person. Chicago hadn't been so bad; he'd found a few friends there and had stayed on warm and lumpy couches. Detroit had been horrible. Lansing, Michigan, though. That's where everything had changed.

Sometimes, when he's really honest with himself, Dean doesn't think John changed his life for the better. Truly, Dean was happier before he had his big queer anarchist awakening. Things were easier; he didn't feel like he was constantly at war with the world around him. Meeting John changed all of that, irrevocably. For better or for worse, the older man, his surrogate father figure after being tossed out, had turned him into a warrior.

He'd been so young, Dean realizes now. Just 17 and so eager to please. This scene was a youth movement, everyone knew that, so when John walked into that party one balmy summer Michigan evening, his jaw set firm and his intense eyes encircled with the dark marks of a life lived in struggle, most people took notice. At thirty, he was the oldest person Dean had been around in a while. It wasn't long before Dean has latched onto the older man. He followed him around like a lost puppy, hanging on to every word out of John's mouth.

An unkind observer might feel the need to label John a wingnut. What he was, truly, was the first militant queer Dean had ever met. While Dean had clearly lost a lot for being gay (his family, his home, his education), the gay rights movement had never held much appeal to him. What did marriage rights matter to him while he was shivering and starving in the back of his car he couldn't even put gas in? He couldn't eat equal sign bumper stickers and $200 a seat fundraisers. So when John started explaining what he did, how he lived, his priorities and passions, Dean was all ears. And he liked what he heard.

The official name was From Hunted To Hunters, taken from something John had said during a long night of drinking and talking at the Lawrence House.

"They want us dead, Dean," John had explained, his face and tone fatally serious, "and they won't stop until they've killed us all. From the frat boys on the streets with their fucking bottles, to the closeted Johns who hate us for having what they can't, to the counselors of those queer kid torture camps, to the fucking politicians and their cop lapdogs. They all want us dead. And they will hunt us down, sometimes literally, to make sure of it. We can't keep being hunted, Dean. We have to become the hunters."

It resonated with him, deeply and to his very core. Sure, he realizes now that it was all a bit theatrical, all a bit much. But it gave him purpose, these beliefs. For the first time in his life, Dean felt like he belonged to something greater than himself. His family had been religious when he was young, but he'd never felt a part of that world, could never fully feel the certainty of faith and community he knew his parents felt. Later, when he realized that boys were just as beautiful as any girl, it was easy to blame this aspect of himself for his lack of connection to the Lord. But when he was incapable of feeling connected to the middle class, well-dressed, suburban gay community, Dean began to think he'd never find his place in this world.

Being part of the Hunters gave Dean two things that he fundamentally required for his survival: a place to put all of his love and a place to put all of his rage.

They'd started out small, just a few actions here and there. Beating up Nazis was fun, there were a few minor acts of vandalism here and there. Public messages of queer power, some businesses with less-than-tolerant practices found their windows smashed, that sort of thing. Nothing big, just anarchy 101. Anarchy light. They had been the best two years of his life.

It was only after the men in the dark suits came knocking, when John disappeared just minutes before out the back window, that Dean realized that his best friend and father figure had been a little more involved. He'd kept Dean out of it on purpose, trying to protect the younger man. It was because he loved him, Dean knew, he _knew_ that with his brain, but try telling Dean Winchester's heart how to feel based on logic. It was never going to happen.

So after Lansing, it was off to Milwaukee. Just passing through, he told himself, just a quick stop before he made his way out west. Seattle maybe, possibly Portland. The city had a more than decent anti-fascist group and Dean had a knack for beating the shit out of Nazis.

It probably hadn't been an accident, but the cops didn't care and no one wanted them to anyway. Dean had been asleep on a couch on the first floor of the twenty third punk house he'd ever crashed. Lucky twenty three. Always a light sleeper, he awoke when the first tendril of smoke curled its way into the room. Then it was all panic and rushing, yelling "Fire! Fire!" at the top of his lungs as he struggled to remember the basic fire safety rules he learned as a child. He made it outside and stood with a few of the kids who lived there before someone realized it.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Mary and Jess aren't here. They're still inside. Oh my god."

To this day he cannot tell you what on Earth possessed him. He'd only met Sam, going by his birth name Mary back then, a handful of times. Mostly just in the kitchen and during the house meeting when they approved Dean's stay for the month. He was a goofy kid, tall and lanky with floppy brown hair and kind eyes, and Dean had liked him well enough, but when you're only in town for a month there's no real point in making friends.

But Dean had this problem. He was brave, see, and he was also stupid. So he ran back in to that burning squat. And he found Sam.

Jess was already dead. He could tell that immediately, even before stooping down to check for a pulse. Sam was passed out cold, his body covering his partner's in a futile last attempt at protecting her. Sam had been large even then, but surprisingly light as Dean tried to stay low while dragging his body out. He used his bandana as a makeshift mask and when they both emerged from the fiery building the kids who had been trained as medics took over.

That was four years ago. Sometimes Dean feels like he never really put Sam down after that night.

The recovery process, if you could ever really recover for such a loss, was brutal. Sam's housemates were all taken in by other squats and community houses but Sam refused any and all offers of help from anyone other than Dean. They slept in the Impala outside the Cream City Collective infoshop in Riverwest for a week or two, Sam barely speaking or eating, before Dean made his suggestion.

"So do you think…" he hesitated, "Do you think maybe you'd like to come with me? To the West coast? I dunno man maybe you have family here but I was thinking that maybe, you know, if you wanted—"

Sam had huffed a bitter laugh, his face cloudy with resent. "No. No family. My dad… He didn't really approve of my life choices, you know? My mom, I was named after her, died before I was even a year old. A fire." Dean must have had made a face at that because Sam made that same choked, acidic laugh. "Yeah. I'm just fucking lucky, I guess."

They sat in silence for a few seconds before Dean had to break it. "Well I'd love to have ya, man. On the road with me, I mean. I was thinking about Portland, you know, cuz the Rosecity Antifa is so good at what they do, and you know me man, any excuse to beat on some Nazi sons of bitches."

Sam considered Dean for a moment before saying, "Yeah. Yeah ok. I'll go. What the hell. I've got nothing here anymore."

Which hadn't been entirely true, but Dean hadn't known that at the time. Sam, with Jess' help, had been putting himself through college. He'd planned to go to law school just next year at Marquette. But if Dean were honest with himself, he knew that he would have asked Sam to leave with him all the same.

And that's how they'd found themselves in Oakland, California three years later.

* * *

**Author's notes**: Unless you're a queer anarchist yourself, you probably have no fucking clue what kind of world these kids are living in. Here, have some back story/explanation of queer anarchy. Enjoy.

I need y'all to understand why none of the Winchesters are related by blood in this AU. Its not cuz they're gonna bang, it's because in my world, queer family is actually more important in a lot of cases than bio family. Most of us feel more loyal to our queer fam than we ever have to blood, and that's because blood so frequently disappoints us and abandons us. So to make this more realistic, Sam and Dean and John are queer fam, not bio fam. Most of us wouldn't die for bio fam, but god help us, we'd probably all die for queer fam. I know I would.

Also it's common practice in this community to refer to trans people as their preferred name and pronouns _even while talking about them in the past before they came out. _So Sam will always be Sam and "he". But I'm pretty into his birth name being Mary, so that direct quote is gonna stay.


	4. Chapter 3

The punks piled into the Roadhouse, chattering excitedly as they all headed into the kitchen. Ash and Pam were already there, breaking into a few 40s. Dean scrunched up his face in disgust at the bottles.

"Forties? Really guys? This isn't just a Saturday night show! Let's break out the good stuff and celebrate!" he chastised.

Pam rolled her eyes, but she smiled affectionately as she replied, "We can't all get paid to pee on rich dudes, Dean. This is all we could get after flying signs last week. Homebum."

"Fucking oogles," Dean shot back, "Always wanting my whiskey. C'mon Sammy, let's go grab the Jack."

Sam shuffled forward, following his brother to the ladder that led up to the attic space they both shared. Up they climbed until they reached the landing, then walked through the room, shoving piles of clothes, empty bottles, and Sam's massive zine collection aside with their feet. Five minutes later they emerged victorious, holding two bottles of Jack and a space bag. Everyone cheered.

As glasses were located, Dean stood against the wall, watching his friends happily. Everyone was laughing, joking, smiling. Pam was flirting with Sam again, much to his constant discomfort and Dean's constant amusement. Only when she started trying to push her glass of whiskey into Sam's hand did Dean step in.

"Aw come on Pam, you know Sammy here is edge. All that 'my body is my temple' and crap, right Sam?" Sam scowled.

"It's all a big joke, man, until you all die at 30 and I live long enough to sell out."

"Punk for life!" Pam shouted with a grin, lifting her glass in the air like a toast. The rest of the room followed, echoing "punk for life!" from person to person.

"Y'all are impossible," Dean drawled, "I don't know what to do with any of you."

"I have a few suggestions," Pam winked flirtatiously.

Dean just laughed. "I thought you weren't fucking anymore, Pam. Something about the estrogen? Shitting all over your sex drive? Or did I make that up?"

Pam scoffed, "Like a little thing like that would stop me from bedding a Winchester."

"I'm like family to these boys!" Ash piped up, "Honorary Winchester, swear to God!"

"In your dreams, honey," Pam retorted, but not unkindly. Everyone knew Pam had a soft spot for Ash. Soft spots weren't the issue, though. Dean left them to it, turning again to Sam.

"How're you doing man? Everything go ok outside today? Those guards weren't too bad, were they?"

"Nah," Sam answered, "nothing we couldn't handle. You know the drill."

And that's how it usually is at the Roadhouse. Dean has his crew of misfit toys and he likes them well enough. But given the choice, he'd rather be here in the corner with his brother, glass of whiskey in his hand and a kombucha for Sammy.

Someone must have texted one of the kids over at the Garden because 20 minutes later Gabe and Chuck and Balthazar were piling into the living room where Dean and Sam were sitting on the falling-apart couch.

"Dean-o! Congrats on the successful terrorizing of the God-fearing Christians. Where can we put our bikes, my good man?" Gabe hollered, pointedly avoiding even a glance at Sam. Dean snorted. Men could be so obvious.

"Gabe, I know you were raised in a god damn barn, but come on, man. Get yer dirty bikes out of my kitchen. You've been here how many times, for how many fake reasons just to stare at my kid brother? You know where the damn bike rack is." Sam choked on his kombucha, though Dean wasn't entirely sure if that was the fault of his words or the drink. That shit was nasty. Like liquid salt and vinegar chips. Blech.

Chuck, Balthazar, and the rest of the room laughed uproariously as Gabe made a face.

"Now now, Dean. Flirting will get you nowhere. I know it's been a while…"

"Low blow, dude. Uncool." Dean snapped before regaining his cool, "I don't know how you think you're gonna get into Sammy's good graces by insulting his hero."

"Hero, Dean?" Sam rolled his eyes but his cheeks were flush with embarrassment, "And I'm right here, you know."

Gabe ducked his head as he laughed, wheeling his bike around to take it to the rack, his roommates following. Two minutes later they were back, Balth holding up a couple of space bags and Gabe pulling a 24 pack of PBR out of his tattered and patched up pack.

"Peace offering, Deaner?" the shorter man grinned.

"Yeah yeah, party on or whatever. I'm going out for a smoke. Keep my seat warm, yeah?" Dean smirked as Gabe's eyes widened slightly before bounding over to sit beside Sam on the grungy couch they had dragged off of the sidewalk a month or two back. Sam smiled nervously.

Dean sighed. Kids these days. He found himself out on the front stoop, leaning on the door as he cupped his lighter with one hand, inhaling as he lit his cigarette. He listened too the happy noises floating out the window of his home. Laughter and flirting, mostly. Someone, probably Chuck, had taken out a guitar and was strumming that damn Against Me song. It wasn't long before The Roadhouse was practically shaking from the force of the words barreling out of 30 punk throats.

"Through the best of times! Through the worst of times! Through Nixon and through Bush!"

Dean chuckled, taking another puff and savoring the burning taste of nicotine. If someone had told him ten years ago that this would be his life…

"…We're all hypocrites! But you're a patriot! You thought I was only joking when I screamed 'KILL WHITEY!' at the cops in their cars and the men in their suits. No I won't take your hand and marry the state!"

It wasn't the easiest life. It wasn't the safest. He had more than his fair share of close calls. He'd been tear gassed and kettled at actions, though never arrested. He had a particularly nasty scar on his scalp from when some neo-nazi son of a bitch had hit him with a lead pipe. He'd had food poisoning from dumpstered food and scabies from traveler kids.

He'd never had a rough John but it was always a possibility. Sam didn't understand why Dean hooked when he didn't really have to, but Sam didn't know about the savings account that was slowly growing fatter and fatter by the month. The savings account would be Sam's ticket back to school, he just didn't know it yet. Dean was thinking of it as an investment: lawyers weren't cheap and having a genius working pro-bono for you and your cause would be a huge relief.

"CAUSE BABY, I'M AN ANARCHIST!" the chorus echoing through the dark West Oakland streets, "YOU'RE A SPINELESS LIBERAL! WE MARCHED TOGETHER FOR THE EIGHT HOUR DAY AND HELD HANDS IN THE STREETS OF SEATTLE! BUT WHEN IT CAME TIME TO THROUGH THAT STARBUCKS WINDOW, YOU LEFT ME ALL ALONE ! ALL ALOOOONE!"

It wasn't the easiest life, but right now, Dean wouldn't trade it for the world.

Which is probably why the cops picked that exact moment to descend. As the blue and red lights flashed heavy on the walls of The Roadhouse as everyone gathered behind the door, Dean had a moment of absolute clarity.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Where the fuck has Ruby been all day?"

"Oh. Fuck."


	5. Chapter 4

The warrant was for Sam. Of course it was. Fucking Ruby.

Ruby was something of a soft spot between Sam and Dean. Sam insisted on being involved with her despite Dean's bad vibes from the girl, and that frustrated the hell out of him. Dean had never trusted her. Sam, ever patient, ever trusting Sam, had.

"She's a fucking agent, I swear to God, Sam," Dean had yelled when he found out Sam was sleeping with her, "No one can cause that much trouble and not be a god damn agent. Do you hear the things she says? I know a god damn agent provocateur when I see one."

"Dean, don't be an asshole. She's just weird. But I like her. She's teaching me a lot of things." Sam protested.

"Exactly! That's what they do, Sam! They show up, waltz in with all these big stupid dangerous ideas, and then guess what? You in a cage for the rest of your god damn life." Dean scoffed, "I don't like her. I don't trust her."

"I don't think agents can sleep with activists anyway, dude. I mean, they can't. It's not fucking the 60s anymore. COINTELPro has been dead for years."

Dean had rolled his eyes at Sam's naivity. "Just… don't friggin tell her shit, ok? And if she tells you how to make a bomb, run away. Just, run away and get me. Promise me that, Sammy."

But Sam hadn't listened. No one ever listened to Dean.

It's hard to gloat over an "I told you so" when you're right about the most important person in your world facing conspiracy charges.

So that's why Dean found himself in the windowless room down at the OPD station, confessing to something he'd never be stupid enough to actually try.

Sheriff Gordon Walker pushed the pad of paper across the table so that it sat directly in front of Dean. Dean picked up the pen and it felt heavy in his hand. A hundred pounds of pressure, right in his palm. It was now or never

"I know why you're doing this, Winchester." Walker sighed, fake concern splashed messily across his face. "I didn't think you'd be this stupid, but hey, I'll take it if it means I can just get one of you _boys_," his sneered sarcastically at that word to let Dean know just how he felt about Sam's gender.

Dean laughed in his face.

"Why Sheriff, if you wanted to take me to prom all you had to do was ask!" He picked up the pen and twirled it in his fingers before giving the officer a theatrically exaggerated appraising look, "But I'm sorry man, hate to break it to you, but I don't get into bed with cops. Can never quite get that bacony smell out of the sheets."

Walker's face twisted in anger and he made a move towards Dean, his body tense and threatening.

"Now you listen here you fucking faggot—" he began menacingly before Dean cut him off.

"Ah ah ah, careful there Sheriff," he drawled lazily, his cocky smile projecting a much more confident façade than the sick churning fear in his stomach, "That there is a two way mirror and, I bet, there are a couple of cameras in here too. Don't want me to walk on some silly little 'coerced confession' claim, right?"

"Write it, then," came the clipped reply.

And he did. As the bullshit word poured out of him, he thought back at the conversation he had had with Sam during the jail's visiting hours.

As soon as Sam had seen Dean's face through the clear plastic divider, he had known what Dean was there for. That was good, because there was no possible way they could be explicit. The guards were breathing down their necks as Sam let out a choked cry.

"Dean, no. No, you can't." Sam moaned softly, pain etched into his eyes.

"Don't get mad at me. Don't you do that. I have to. I have to look out for you. That's my job!" Dean begged, pleading for Sam to understand.

"And what do you think my job is?" Sam answered quietly.

Dean looked at Sam. "What?"

"You save my life, over and over. I mean, you sacrifice everything for me, don't you think I'd do the same thing for you? You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. I don't care what it takes," Sam took a deep breath, "I'm gonna get you out of this."

Dean had nodded once and slowly raised his tired body off the stool, the plastic phone still in his hand. "Then find me a really good lawyer, Sammy."

Turning himself in in Sam's place had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Dean's record was clean while Sam had a few misdemeanors from his anti-war activist days. And prison was just different for trans people. Harder, more dangerous than it could ever be for Dean. It had made sense. And everyone knew the Winchester boys. It wasn't hard to convince the cops that the bullshit story Ruby had fed them was all Dean's idea. It had been an easy choice.

Dean had underestimated just how hellish prison could really be.

The food was terrible. His cell was tiny. He was in solitary for 23 hours a day. They wouldn't let him out into the general population, something about it being for his own protection or shit. As a high profile queer activist, they told him, he'd be at higher risk for attacks from the other inmates. It wasn't hard to see right through that, though. Solitary meant no witnesses for the torture.

The guard who worked the night shift was the worst.

Alastair. His name was Alastair, and he was good at his job.

It started with a couple of visits, never in any discernable pattern. Sometimes he would come on a Monday night, opening the door to Dean's cage with a sick grin that twisted Dean's stomach, and then he wouldn't come back until Friday. Sometimes he would be there four nights in a row.

It was the uncertainty that was the worst. Dean could deal with a violation or a fist to the face like a pro, but the psychological warfare was soul crushing. The three weeks he had already spent in jail felt more like 30 years. And they were going to hold him in this tiny room until his trial, Dean knew. When his trial date was set for three months in the future, Dean felt something die inside him. Something that felt a lot like hope.

His bail was set at half a million dollars, which meant his bond would be 50 thousand. Sam and Jo were trying their best to fundraise like crazy, holding benefit shows and potlucks in a desperate attempt to raise more money than any of them had ever seen before in their lives.

When Sam came to see him during visiting hours, their conversations were usually centered on how to get Dean out.

"I found a lawyer." Sam stated into the phone, all business as he sat down on his stool opposite Dean.

"How'd you manage to swing that?" Dean asked, a bit taken back.

"Ellen Harvalle called in a favor. She knows some hotshot lawyer who takes radicals' cases pro bono," He explained, "Apparently he was one of us in his younger days. He and Ellen used to run together during the anti-war movement."

"Aw great, one of those Weatherman types? Well, at least he's down. What's his name?"

"Robert Singer," Same paused as he saw Dean's bugged out eyes, "What, you know him or something?"

"You don't? Sammy, that dude's one of the best radical lawyers in the world. He **started** the Bay's chapter of the National Lawyer's Guild. We're talking royalty here, man. And he's my lawyer? Are you sure?"

Sam laughed. "Yeah man, I guess ol' Ellen really pulled through, huh?"

"Damn, she sure as shit did."

When Sam started chattering happily about how helpful Gabe was being with the fundraising efforts and how he had made over $300 with his vegan bake sale, Dean just smiled and nodded, distracted by the recent turn of events.

After that, Dean felt a little bit better. But hope is a dangerous thing to have in a cage.

Author's notes:

I'm sorrrrry this is so short and took me a few days but when I say this is actually my life I mean it and I had to deal with a couple of friends going to jail this week and organizing a huge fundraiser for some friends/political prisoners so this is all you get.

I really can't under any circumstances write rape scenes but I think it's safe to assume that Dean did not escape either canon hell or my 'verse's hell without being sexually assaulted because everything is terrible.

I am so excited to write Bobby Singer as a brilliant (but still gruff and hilarious) lawyer you don't even know.

Also I'm not a lawyer but my friends have been through this fucking arrested, held on absurdly high bail (my friend who got arrested this week had a 55k bail for "misdemeanor theft", a kid I know in Portland got arrested two weeks about and their bail is 1 million, etc), beaten to shit in jail, gone to trial thing so many times that I can attest that this is really how it works.


	6. I Don't Understand That Punk Reference

I don't understand that punk reference: A Glossary of Queer Radical/Punk Terms 

(will be updated frequently as the story proceeds)

**Agent**- an undercover agent, usually federal, that infiltrates a radical movement and relays information to the police and/or FBI. An agent provocateur is the same thing as an agent, but one that tries to create illegal and criminal situations in order to arrest the activists. Brandon Darby is one of the most famous in this generation (see the RNC 8), but the Black Panthers and other liberation movements suffered from agents' efforts.

**Anarchy**- the political belief and movement dedicated to ultimate liberation from systematic oppression such as racism, homophobia, prison, and the government.

**COINTELPro**- this is rapidly becoming a leftist 101 history lesson so I'm just gonna copy paste this from wikipedia. **COINTELPRO** (an acronym for **Co**unter**intel**ligence **Pro**gram) was a series of covert, and often illegal, projects conducted by the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) aimed at surveying, infiltrating, discrediting, and disrupting domestic political organizations. Took place between 1956 and 1971

**Dumpstering/dumpster diving**- pretty much exactly how it sounds. We go to Trader Joe's and Whole Foods' dumpsters and eat the pounds and pounds of food they throw out. We only get sick sometimes.

**Estrogen**- a hormone that creates "female characteristics" to form in/on bodies. Trans women sometimes choose to take it for their transition, but sometimes they don't.

**Flying Signs**- when oogles stand on the side of the road or at highway entrances with signs that ask for money. Also called "spanging", which is spare+change. We are so clever.

**Homebum**- a punk that has a home/pays rent/has a job/etc but is still considered kinda legit. Not to be confused with "sell out punk" or "bougie punk" (which tbh is what I am)

**Oogle**- in some communities seen as a grave insult, but mostly just when you're an oogle. Basically a dirty, drunk punk. Clothes are patched and usually all black and/or carharts. My partner just insisted I tell you all that a "doogle" is an oogle's dog.

**Poz**- slang for HIV+

**Scabies**- Honestly the worst. Like lice for your whole body. When you don't know if you have scabies or not, you tell people you have the "maybies" and they stay the fuck away from you.

**Space bag**- slang for boxed wine

**Squat**- a house where people live and don't pay rent. Hella illegal. Hella fun.

**Straightedge/edge**- a facet of punk culture where the adherents don't drink, smoke, or do drugs.

**Testosterone**- a hormone that creates "male charaterstics" to form in/on bodies. Injectable. Trans men sometimes choose to take it for their transition, but sometimes they don't.


End file.
